The Lines
by lord-is-it-mine
Summary: The Lines have gotten deeper lately- he pretends he doesn't think she notices, but she knows he knows she does. A retrospective on how time has changed Patrick Jane and the woman who loves him. Mentions of sex and death.


The lines have gotten deeper lately- he pretends he doesn't think she notices, but she knows he knows she does.

They used to be crying lines, back at the start, back when he still allowed himself the luxury of crying. Back when she first knew him, before she really knew him at all. They were the lines under his lower lids and the creases at the corners of his sea-green eyes- harsh pink and swollen from the last tears he swore he'd ever shed.

After that, they ebbed away into laughter lines- the corner creases were still there, pleasantly obvious, the good kind of lines that don't weigh one down with age. he was a trickster, a lost boy, Peter Pan- she'd always thought he'd never look old. For years those laughter lines held- joined by ones on his forehead- the dimples on his cheeks became permanent, just like the smile he kept to mask the pain of his existence. For while they really were laughter lines, so she didn't mind if they were ingrained on his face.

But lately, the lines have gotten deeper. 

The thing about laughter lines; they don't go deep. Sure, they're noticeable, but not so much as the ones that resemble scars, moreover the old wounds they once were. First crying lines then laughing lines, but lately they've been tired lines. Tired lines are the worst kind of lines- even if you've slept well for days, one restless night will leave you marked for weeks. And she knows he hasn't been sleeping at all. And that's not only her fault. Ever since Lorelei escaped from prison, the lines have gotten deeper- she knows he's responsible. He knows she knows too- just like the lines- he's pretending not to notice that she's figured it out. And he hasn't been sleeping, not since her jab about the shaking of hands, not since she got away again (although that isn't the part that's truly bothering him).

They never speak of what's causing his tired lines, not when they're alone, not even in their most intimate moments, when there's so much to be said for their lack of words. He lies to her about his plans (he always will), and she knows he lies and lies about knowing this. Even when the lines that matter are not the ones on his skin, but the ones they are crossing, they still don't speak of his sins. Even when the lines they have crossed are ruined, drawn in the sand and erased by the tide. And as always, the looks that pass between them- his lined eyes and her worried ones- speak endless volumes.

The lines on his face aren't just tired anymore. It's been said- it's all been said. Now that Lorelei's killed and been killed, his one good lead is gone. But that isn't all. No matter how much he rationalizes, justifies or turns it over in his own mind- some part of him, the most bitter, sick, twisted part did care about her in some god-forsaken way. Teresa knows that, and of course he pretends he doesn't think she notices, but she knows he knows she does. And the lines of his face cut deeper than before- they all fall at the corners, becoming frown lines and grimace lines and lines that have no laughter left in them.

The line of his shoulders has dropped too- she's noted that he slouches more. The lines of his legs have lost their grace- his long-proud stride lacking its usual nonchalance as he would say. And his arms- the lines of his arms have lost their strength- in will, not muscle. Now, whenever she relearns the lines of his chest and of his body (lines that she has memorized countless times) she knows that they too have changed; they are thinner and softer and much more fragile. It's been this way for a long time. He sometimes goes nearly days without eating- holed up in his loft like a bird caged for the winter, condemned not to fly 'til spring shows its fickle face. He is a caged bird.

She knows this. He pretends he doesn't think she notices, but she knows he knows she does.

"I know." He says. It's barely been three hours since they were at the crime scene, where he was sorry. He knows as well as she does that it wasn't an apology- it was sorry as in pity- what happened was unavoidable. Now there is no pity, no thoughts of anyone other than the two of them, hidden away in his loft, curled in on each other to avoid the moonlight and its voyeurism.

The love they've made still hangs in the air, cycles through their lungs- soft and slow and as always, bittersweet. Here they are, lying on that stupid cot that she knows he's slept in far too many times. He should be in a house, home, not stolen away like an outcast, an outcast he would say he is. Once again she is learning his lines, and once again there's less and less of him. And even though they're on their backs, he's somehow still slouching- maybe not his shoulders, but his soul.

"Know what?" She asks, but it's not really a question. She knows that he knows that she's noticed.

"I know you know they've gotten deeper." This is one of the things that his eyes have always said, and the tone of his voice should come with a smile- it's almost condescending- but the way a child is condescending- precocious and somewhat endearing- yeah. He's the cutest smart-ass in the world. She rolls her eyes. He should be smiling at this point, seeing as how her petulant smirk is what he wanted to see. But he won't smile, and she knows this. She can ask of him the moon- the moon the stars and they sky they're wrapped up in, and he'll give it. But not to erase those lines. The more times they're together like this, the more they seem to understand- soon the moon won't be enough. Soon it'll matter that she can't get him to smile; soon the lines will cut him to the core, and she'll resent herself for being helpless. And he'll resent himself for letting her believe that she is anything less than his reason for living. Not telling her that is the biggest truth he's never told.

"Yours are getting deeper too." He muses, his fingertips kissing across the corners of her eyes, the worry lines etched into her forehead. "And that's my fault." There's nothing to be done about that.

"No, I got myself into this. If I was worried about my complexion, I would have gone running ages ago." There's nothing to be done about that either. She knows he carries too much weight, more weight than any one man should ever even attempt to carry. And telling him this isn't his fault won't make him believe it anymore than he already does (or doesn't as the case may be).

She wants to take some of that weight, rub out some of those lines, remove them from his face and graft them onto hers.

"This is not your burden; this is mine." He whispers; like a thought, a thought that his eyes would have said just as well. And it floats in the air, still heavy, even though it's been said. Because his impossible burden is still a burden. Even though she is willing to carry it, he will never let himself be anything but alone. The lines are still deep, still dark, and a thousand 'love you's' will not make them any lighter.

They both know this. He pretends he doesn't think she notices, but she knows he knows she does. And she does.


End file.
